He was alert for anything and everything. There were I phone numbers on a desk pad, and he made a note of these, and then went rapidly through Creasy’s bureau drawers. The files of genealogical data had no significance for him, but he stared for a few seconds at the faded pictures of silent film stars that covered the wall at the foot of his bed. A movie fan? A hero worshiper? Speculation was pointless, but something in that collection of handsome, forgotten faces alerted his highly developed sense of the incongruous — which in Roth was an intuitive faculty, an almost a priori awareness of significant peculiarities. Scientists have similar antennae, as do doctors and priests, and occasional politicians.
But Roth ignored these ephemeral promptings; there was no time for anything but facts. He turned to the top of the bureau where Creasy’s toilet articles were spread in a disorderly heap, a sorry little monument to a man’s lack of respect for his own body. The bristles of his hairbrush, dark with scurf and oil, were worn down to the wooden back, and the tubes of shaving cream and toothpaste had been squeezed and twisted into little accordions of ugly economy. His bar of soap, partially wrapped in a damp wash cloth, was festooned with swirls of drying suds, and flecked with little curls of hair. All of this added to Roth’s picture of Creasy — from these data he could have drawn a hundred accurate inferences about the man. But they didn’t need inferences now; they needed facts.
Finally he picked up a notebook from a table in the middle of the room — the sort school children use, with ruled paper and cardboard covers in black and white check. Roth leafed through it, aware of a little stir of excitement. Crowley had said the special delivery letter had been written on ruled, copybook paper — and the front page had been tom from this book, and there were pen or pencil indentations on the second page. The message to the Bradleys had been brief — two short sentences — and the marks on the second page were also brief — two short sentences.
Roth made himself think clearly, trying not to give way to a precipitate impatience. The special delivery note was just across the street and it would take only a split second to match its tom edges against the back-bone of this book. He glanced at his watch; he’d been inside five minutes. But time was no yardstick on safety; Creasy might be gone all day, or he might be heading back home this minute.
Roth was suddenly aware that perspiration had broken out on his forehead. To bring the note here might crowd the limits of safety to dangerous lengths. If something slipped it could mean the baby’s life. Arresting Creasy would do no good; they couldn’t know what codes or signals had been arranged between him and the other kidnapers.
Roth stared at the notebook for half a minute in silence. Then he said, “God help me,” in a low voice, and reached for his brief case.
Having made the decision, he worked quickly: he zippered open the brief case and flashed Carstairs with movements that were maximums of precision and economy. He said quietly, “I’m going to phone Crowley. Get every word. You’ll know what to do then...”
“Right,” Carstairs said. “I’m standing by.”
Roth placed the radio beside the phone and dialed the Bradleys’ number, and when the buzzing started he heard a sudden heavy stroke of his heart. He talked first to Dick Bradley and then to Crowley. “This is Roth,” he said. “I’m across the street in Creasy’s room.” Crowley didn’t answer him and Roth said, “your middle name is Francis, your card number is one, two, four eight, you’ve got a bullet scar on your left forearm. The guy who shot you was named Miller. Okay?”
“Right,” Crowley said.
“Okay, listen carefully now...”
Roth crossed the room after putting the phone down and looked out at the windows of the Bradley home, at the sun gleaming on the massive brass knocker and antique numerals. A moment later Mrs. Jarrod came out and walked briskly toward Third Avenue, a mesh market bag in her hand. Roth patted his forehead with a handkerchief. Mrs. Jarrod had the note in her purse, and Carstairs was waiting for her in the supermarket. She would leave the note in a freezer and he would be standing beside her to retrieve it...
Five minutes passed. Then two more. “It’s got to work,” he said softly, using the words as a wall against his fears. He stood perfectly still, breathing as deeply as a man who had been running hard for blocks. Then he heard footsteps in the hallway, a man’s footsteps brisk and sharp in the silence. The man was whistling Dark Eyes. Roth let out his breath slowly. The tune was a favorite of Carstairs’...
He crossed the room, turned the knob and took the sheet of paper from Carstairs. No words were needed. Roth opened the notebook and placed the sheet of paper on top of the second page, moving the tom edges toward each other, lining them up with his eyes until they fitted together, meshing exactly...
Roth’s thoughts leaped ahead. They had Creasy. Now they must get Duke Farrel.
But as he turned toward the door the radio clicked softly, and the agent in the room on Third Avenue said, “Clear out!” in a sharp, imperative voice. “Creasy just pulled up in a cab. Move! Fast!”
Creasy fumbled in his pockets for change. He wasn’t sure why he had returned home. Something had frightened him and he always felt safer in his room — that was all he knew. All his life he had been spied upon; he had caught people staring at him from windows and doorways since he had been a child. And today the awareness of these hostile watchers had been very strong...
He discovered he had no change. He gave the driver a five-dollar-bill and said, “Please, I’m in a hurry.”
“In a hurry? This all you got?”
“Yes. You should have change for a five.” Creasy’s voice almost shot out of control. “You can’t expect your passengers to carry the fare in silver. You’re supposed to carry change. Isn’t that correct?”
The driver looked at him in silence, his head tilted slightly. Finally he said, “Mac, I asked you a simple question. I said, ‘This all you got?’ All you got to do is say no. Lecturing me ain’t going to help. There’s nothing to yak about. No hard feelings, nothing.” He counted out Creasy’s change carefully, smiled philosophically at the size of his tip, and drove off, shaking his head.
Creasy’s room was dark and empty. He leaned against the door, drawing confidence from the silence, the familiar shadows, the musty smells. Finally he snapped on the night-lamp beside his bed, fearful as always that the shadows might begin to move. He looked in the closet and under the bed for his enemy. Some day he would find him. When the shadows moved... But today he was safe. His fears subsided slowly into the depths of his unconscious. He lit a cigarette and walked to the windows, smiling at the Bradleys’ house. He felt secure again, dominant...
Roth stood on the stairs leading to the second floor of Creasy’s building. He had barely made it. When he heard Creasy go into his room, he glanced at his watch. He waited five minutes, then came briskly down the stairs and walked into the bright sunlight. Now to call West.
Nineteen
Grant was dozing before the fireplace when a car turned into the driveway in front of the lodge. As he came to his feet, shaking his head in confusion, headlights swept brilliantly across the windows and a train of grotesque shadows leaped through the fire-lit room.